Am I really a cancer survivor?

Cancer survivorship is big on my mind this week as I’m writing a story on the topic for work. I call myself a cancer survivor. I had melanoma in 2001. Two tumors: one was small, a black fleck on the border of my right areola, the other big, deep and ugly on the inside of my right forearm. The second one was the worry–it had grown through all the layers of skin and fatty tissue.

I have souvenirs: a tiny white fleck of a scar on my breast, a half-dollar-sized, keloided scar on my right forearm and a long thin scar in my right armpit. And my life, and my daughter, as well. I mustn’t forget about those gifts.

When I tell people I am a cancer survivor, they expect me to spin a tale about my chemotherapy treatment, or radiation therapy, or immune therapy–like Izzy on Grey’s Anatomy. They want to hear about my triumph over lost hair, and uncontrolled vomiting. They want to know about my suffering. I can’t tell them about those things, because I didn’t endure them. My cancer was cured with surgery.

And because my only suffering was fear of death, having a major operation when I was 25 weeks pregnant, I feel like a fraud. Like I’m almost a cancer survivor, but not quite. My oncologist has told me I was very lucky, because thick melanomas are more likely to spread to the lymph nodes and beyond. My pregnancy may have somehow contributed to the lack of metastasis. He’s right. I was lucky on so many fronts, and I’m grateful.

But as I’m writing this story, I also feel ashamed, like I’m trying to cash in on some sympathy chit that cancer survivors get, but that I don’t quite deserve. I wonder if other cancer survivors who were lucky enough — like me — to need only surgery to cure them feel the same way. Are they ashamed, too, that they didn’t suffer? Do they feel guilty that they survived?

Recently, I’ve thought about not calling myself a cancer survivor anymore. If someone points out my scar, I could say I’m someone who had a tumor that was removed and all is well. However, like those survivors whose treatment caused more suffering than mine did, I harbor a strong fear in the pit of my stomach that melanoma will come back. About 60% of stage IIb melanoma survivors are still alive 10 years later. When can I stop worrying? Ever? My grandmother died from breast cancer at the age of 82 that was initially treated when she was in her late 40s.

I know these are questions that plague other people who’ve had cancer. In that, we’re the same. Is worry of recurrence enough, though, to make me a legitimate cancer survivor? And why do I need to call myself part of that group at all?

Sounds like a topic for therapy.